Caught in the Act (formerly 'Lucky')
by Firebird9
Summary: "Why is it, Miss Fisher, that whenever I accompany you to the theatre, somebody ends up dead on the stage?" Phryne and Jack investigate the murder of a cardsharp stagehand. But solving this case may cost both of them more than they had anticipated. Two chapters added to wrap up the crime thread.
1. Chapter 1

**Caught in the Act (formerly 'Lucky')**

**Author:** Firebird9

**Rating:** T

**_Please note the title change: this fic was originally posted as 'Lucky'. Only chapters 10 and 11 are new, so if you've read this before, you might want to skip straigh to them._**

* * *

"Hello Jack." Phryne Fisher breezed into Jack Robinson's office with a smile and perched expectantly on the corner of his desk.

"Miss Fisher. What can I do for you today?" Her smile told him she wanted something. His own, he thought with some chagrin, meant that he was likely to give it to her.

"Today? Why, nothing, Jack." She leaned towards him. "I was hoping you might do something for me tonight."

Months of her company had given him enough experience to pretend that he hadn't noticed her suggestive tone, or the flirtatious body language that accompanied it.

"Very well then, what can I do for you tonight?" he enquired, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands with a pleasant smile.

"I was wondering whether you might care to join me at the theatre."

"That depends. It's not another light opera, is it?" Whilst he would admit that solving the Rudigore case with her had gone some way towards ameliorating his dislike of the genre it certainly wasn't enough to convince him to commit himself to another G&S.

"Better than that." She produced two tickets with a flourish. "A magician. The Great Benzini will dazzle us all with his mystical skills."

He was impressed. She had somehow managed to hit on the one form of theatrical entertainment that he detested even more than Gilbert and Sullivan. "I don't think so, Miss Fisher."

"Why not?" She threw him the kind of pout which, he knew, had turned many a man to putty in her hands. He was determined, however, that it would not work on him.

"Because I have no wish to spend my evening watching deception, deceit and flimflam being passed off as entertainment. I see quite enough of that at work without paying for the privilege of witnessing more."

"Well it's your lucky day: you won't be paying for anything. I already have the tickets, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste."

"Magic shows really aren't my thing. Why don't you take Dot? I'm sure she'd enjoy herself."

"The ticket was for Dot. But her sister's children have all gone down with chicken-pox and she's had to rush off to play Florence Nightingale."

"I thought Dot's sister was a hostess at the Imperial Club?"

Phryne gave him a withering look. "That's Lola. This is another one. Four little ones and a fifth on the way, and the whole herd is scratching and crying like they're at death's door."

"I'm fairly certain that the correct collective noun for a group of small children is not 'herd'," he observed.

"Oh, stop trying to change the subject. The show starts at seven, and I thought you could join me for supper afterwards."

"And there's no-one else you can ask? What about Doctor Macmillan?"

"Mac's working, and who else would be available at such short notice?"

Truthfully, she could think of at least half a dozen eligible young men who would have leapt at the chance to accompany her, particularly with the promise of 'supper' afterwards, but these days, to her confusion and disgust, she found herself preferring Jack's company more and more often. Jack might not be willing to provide her with the kind of late-night amusements to which she was accustomed, but he was witty, intelligent, and she genuinely enjoyed his company. She was also optimistic that she might at some point convince him to overcome whatever sexual hang-ups kept him from succumbing to her more sensual charms, and in the meantime it was fun to see his reaction whenever she tried.

"Oh? And yet you assume I'm available?" He gave her an arch look.

"Of course. You can't be working a murder or I'd know about it, and I doubt you have any other cases that can't wait until morning."

He really should have been ready for her sudden pounce on his files, he thought, as she scooped them up and shuffled swiftly through them. "Assault, illegal gambling, and a bank robbery. See? Nothing that can't wait," she declared airily, dropping them back in front of him. Her expression turned coy. "But if you really aren't interested I'm sure I can think of one or two other gentlemen who might be willing to accompany me."

She was trying to make him jealous, he knew, and what was worse was that it was working. He was well aware of how much she enjoyed male company, and in what ways, and tried very hard not to think too much about why it was he found it hard not to think about it too much. Phryne watched him wrestle with his conflicting desires, not to give in to her on the one hand and not to have her bed yet another lover on the other, and tried not to smile.

With a sigh, he leaned across and plucked a ticket from her hand. "Where exactly am I meeting you?" he asked as she smiled triumphantly at him.

"The Majestic, on Plum Street, at about a quarter to. That should give us plenty of time to find our seats."

Plum Street, he noted. Hardly the best neighbourhood, although Phryne was probably already well aware of that. The woman knew far too many things that a lady had no business knowing.

"Very good." He tucked his ticket into the breast pocket of his jacket. "I'll see you there."


	2. Chapter 2

He was early, she noted without surprise, as Bert and Cec dropped her outside the Majestic Theatre. There was little about the building that resembled its name: the charitable might have described it as having an air of 'faded grandeur', whilst the uncharitable would have used words like 'dilapidated', or perhaps 'death trap'. The expression on Jack's face as she approached him suggested that he fell squarely into the latter category.

"Jack! You made it."

"Of course. No car tonight?" His eyes briefly followed the departing cab.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "In this neighbourhood?"

He tilted his head in a manner which indicated that he agreed with her assessment, and offered her his arm before opening the door.

Inside, the dim light covered a multitude of sins, and Phryne smiled in delight. Places like this gave her the chance to escape, briefly, from some of the social pressures which attended being the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, and she was looking forward to an hour's unadulterated amusement.

A young attendant wearing what Jack considered to be entirely too little clothing showed them to their seats. There were no boxes to be had in an establishment such as this, but Phryne had secured two of the best seats in the stalls. They were among the first to arrive, and he ensured that she was seated comfortably before taking his own place next to her.

The theatre filled and the lights dimmed still further, before a loud voice boomed out from the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the one, the only, the Great Benzini!"

Phryne applauded as loudly as anyone else and heard Jack give a few half-hearted claps beside her. She suppressed an amused smile. Clearly he had decided not to enjoy himself, and Jack in a sour mood could at times be extremely entertaining.

The first few acts passed quickly in a succession of tried-and-true card tricks, the 'destruction' and amazing 'reconstruction' of a man's pocket-watch, and a rather disgruntled-looking rabbit being pulled out of a hat which the poor thing had probably been stuffed in for hours.

"You're actually enjoying this?" Jack muttered to Phryne at one point.

"Of course. It's all very clever: the real trick is in the showmanship and misdirection – the flimflam. If you can see past that you have a good chance of spotting how the trick was accomplished. Oh, bravo!" This last was directed to the appearance of two panicked doves, which swiftly launched themselves towards the rafters.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you were once a magician's assistant in Madrid?"

"Brussels, actually. And," she added, "right here in Melbourne, too. You remember, when that poor hermaphrodite woman was killed at the circus."

"How could I forget?" Especially when the memory of the dress she had worn while investigating that particular case still made occasional appearances in his dreams.

"And now," the 'Great Benzini' called from the stage, "for my next trick I will require a volunteer from the audience."

Phryne's hand shot up with the speed and enthusiasm of a child's, and Jack winced. Must the woman be the centre of attention everywhere she went?

"Yes, the beautiful lady in the front." Benzini eyed Phryne appreciatively and she rose, handing her purse to Jack. The look he shot her told her very clearly that he was not impressed. The look she shot back told him just as clearly that she didn't care.

She slipped easily along the row and into the aisle, then made her way to the front and up the steps leading onto the stage.

She was half-way to Benzini when a body plummeted from the fly-loft and crashed to the ground between them.


	3. Chapter 3

Unlike at Rudigore, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that something terrible had happened. Women screamed, men shouted, and Jack had to push against a sudden tide of panicked humanity in order to reach the stage, his occasional shouts of "Police! Out of the way!" either unheard or unheeded in the hubbub.

Mounting the steps two at a time, he pushed the curtain aside to find Phryne kneeling over the body and ignoring the hysterics of the theatre manager, magician, magician's assistant and, it seemed, everybody else in the place. The victim was very obviously dead, and the gaping bullet-wound in his chest suggested that it probably wasn't accidental.

"Why is it, Miss Fisher, that whenever I accompany you to the theatre, somebody ends up dead on the stage?" He dropped her purse in front of her, clearly indicating that he was refusing to take further responsibility for it.

"I could ask you the same question," she responded, reaching absently for her purse with her eyes still focussed on the victim. "I can assure you it never happens when I'm with anyone else."

"I'm glad to hear it." He crouched down next to her. "Single gunshot wound to the chest." He looked up at the manager. "Do we know who the victim was?"

"Uh, Sam. Samuel Parsons. He was a stage-hand here." The man obviously needed a stiff drink, but Jack had more pressing concerns.

He nodded. "Call the police. City South Police Station: ask for Constable Hugh Collins. Then I'll need a list of all staff, their names and addresses. The audience can go" – most of them had probably already done so anyway – "but none of the staff are to leave until I say so." He looked at Phryne. "I guess supper will have to wait. You're very quiet; what have you found?"

"Maybe nothing." She handed him the object she had removed from the victim's pocket.

"Playing cards?"

"Mmm." She leaned closer to whisper "they're marked."

"Marked?" He tucked them into his pocket until they could be logged as evidence. "Well spotted. Anything else?"

She shook her head. "He wasn't armed, and he was only carrying a few shillings. Although-" she pointed to his face "- it looks as though somebody worked him over once before. Those bruises are at least a couple of days old."

He nodded again. "So, an unarmed man who has recently been the victim of assault is shot and killed. Let's start by interviewing his colleagues."

...

The manager, Bertram Hadley, sat grey-faced behind his desk. "I only hired him a couple of months ago. He'd been working on the docks, he said. He was certainly good with his hands: learned the ropes in no time, could knock up any prop you asked of him."

"What were his relationships with his co-workers like?"

"Generally good, I suppose. He and Benjamin – the Great Benzini – seemed to get on well."

"And the female staff?"

"There were no complaints." A pained expression crossed the man's face, and Phryne pounced on it.

"But?"

Mr. Hadley shot Jack a pleading look.

"Miss Fisher is a private investigator," he informed him. "Regardless of how she may appear" –positively demure tonight compared with the attendant and the magician's assistant – "I doubt there's much you can say that will shock her."

"This is... not the best neighbourhood. Female companionship is easy enough to come by for a small consideration. If the girls here aren't interested, the men know where to look for someone who is."

"And Mr. Parsons was availing himself of their services?"

"I believe so."

Jack nodded. "Any ladies in particular, that you were aware of?"

"No."

...

Phryne and Jack headed for the Great Benzini – aka Benjamin Gould's – dressing room.

"Do you want me to see if any of the girls will talk to me?" Phryne asked.

Jack shook his head. "I doubt you'll be able to locate any just now, not with police swarming all over the neighbourhood. We'll work on it tomorrow." He knocked on the door of the dressing-room.

"Come in."

The room was little more than a closet, with Mr. Gould perched awkwardly on a small stool in front of a tiny dressing-table. Up close, with the greasepaint largely wiped away, he looked as old and as faded as the theatre.

"I understand you knew the dead man?" Jack opened.

"Yes, he was a good boy." The accent was vaguely Eastern European, overlaid by many years in the colonies, and the words burst forth in a sudden torrent. "Oh God, this is all my fault!"

"How so?"

"Sam asked me to help him with the cards. Just a few tricks, he said. Sleight of hand, how to count them. I thought it was conjuring he was interested in."

"But it wasn't?"

"No." The man fell silent, and after a moment Phryne spoke.

"Gambling. He was using his knowledge to cheat at cards." Gould nodded miserably, and she looked at Jack. "And the kind of people who run illegal card games are not the kind of people who appreciate cheating."

"I confronted him two days ago," Gould continued, "when I saw the bruises. I told him 'no more': the things I had taught him were never supposed to be used for immoral gain."

Jack raised an eyebrow at that, but otherwise remained silent.

"What happened to his winnings?" Phryne asked.

Gould shrugged and sighed. "More gambling. Grog. Women."

Jack pulled out his notebook, thankful that he happened to have it with him. "Can you tell us anything else? Where he gambled? Who he gambled with? The names of any of the women?"

"On the docks, I think. He mentioned meeting his friends there a couple of times: Jimmy, Jake. There were a couple of foreign names too. Angelo, maybe. Petros."

Jack made a note. "And the women?"

"There was one called Flora. Beyond that I don't remember."

"Very good." Jack handed over his card. "If you think of anything else, you can contact me at City South Police Station."

...

"A veritable font of information," Phryne commented once they were back in the hallway.

"Mmm," Jack replied.

"'Mmm'?"

"As you've said yourself, you shouldn't trust anybody who's willing to be of that much help to the police. Even if somebody they call a friend has been murdered."

"I'm helpful," she observed coquettishly.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "That is entirely debatable, and what makes you so certain that I trust you?" She smirked at him, and he gestured back down the hallway. "Let's go see what Constable Collins has for us."


	4. Chapter 4

"So. A man wearing a fedora and scarf entered through the rear door here." Constable Hugh Collins pointed, consulting his notes assiduously. "Mr. Parsons apparently took one look at him and began to run." Phryne and Jack followed him down the narrow passageway backstage. "The man in the fedora pursued him, and he made his way towards the other door over there." Collins gestured again. "However, as he rounded the corner another man appeared in that doorway. Parsons checked, turned back, and ran for the ladder leading to the fly-loft. He mounted the ladder and the first man, the one in the fedora, pursued him. No-one heard the shot, but a moment later there was a thud and screaming from the audience and the man in the fedora came back down the ladder, pushed through the people backstage, and headed out the same way he came in."

Jack nodded. "Good work Collins. Did you manage to get a description of the killer?"

"Uh, not really sir. His face and hair were obscured by the hat and the scarf. He was at least six feet tall, and several of the witnesses described his complexion as 'swarthy'. Beyond that, it all happened so fast, and with the scarf and the low light..."

"I understand. Make sure you have everyone's details, then head back to the station. Oh," he pulled the playing cards from his pocket, "and log these as evidence, will you? They were in the victim's pocket."

"Yes sir."

Phryne was already casting a speculative gaze at the ladder, and even as Jack watched she began to climb it.

"Miss Fisher! Phryne!" She glanced back down at him. "You're wearing an evening dress," he reminded her.

"I know, and damned hard going it is to climb in too."

"No, that wasn't what I- never mind. Collins!" he snapped, as he started up the ladder behind her, eyes directed anywhere but at the woman above him. "Change of plan. You will remain _right here_ and make sure no-one else stands under or climbs up this ladder until Miss Fisher and I have finished our investigations. And you will keep your eyes firmly front and centre, is that understood?"

Collins gulped. "Yes, sir!"

Phryne was already working her way through the fly-loft by the time he reached the top of the ladder. "Let's see," she mused aloud. "He was fleeing, so he would have taken a fairly direct route. He must have run along here, then turned, and ended up over the stage..." She looked down in a casual manner that made Jack's own stomach do somersaults. "About here," she finished. "Yes, there's blood."

"He was familiar with his surroundings." Jack took up the story. "He was confident moving around the flies, but his killer probably wasn't. And the killer was a large man, which would have meant he'd move awkwardly on such narrow catwalks. But he had a gun. There's no cover up here, so he didn't need to pursue Parsons any further: he had a clear shot. But why didn't we hear anything?"

"He could have timed it to coincide with the applause?" Phryne suggested, making her way back to him in the same nonchalant manner with which she had wandered out over the stage.

Jack shook his head. "Ever over that racket I'd have recognised a gunshot, and so would you."

"What's this?" She crouched down and scooped something up with her gloved fingers. He crouched next to her, noticing further traces on the wooden planking. She lifted her gloved hand to her nose and sniffed. "It smells like... potato."

"Of course!" Jack exclaimed. "That's why we didn't hear the shot. A potato held over the muzzle of the gun-"

"Will muffle the report," Phryne finished for him.

He shot her a look. "How on earth do you know that?" he asked, and she shrugged dismissively.

"I must have read it somewhere, obviously. And if he was carrying something to muffle the shot-"

"Then this was premeditated. Add to that the fact that no-one else in the theatre reported being threatened by the gunman, that the contents of the victim's pockets were intact, and that the victim clearly recognised his killer and knew why he was here, and it all begins to look very personal."

They spent a few more minutes looking over the flies. Jack reluctantly followed Phryne out over the stage, conceding that yes, Mr. Parsons was most likely shot where she had noticed the blood, and must indeed have tumbled off the catwalk to land at her feet on the stage below, and it was indeed most likely the shot and not the fall that had killed him, not that it made much difference, and, really, he'd seen enough and they could leave now. All of which amused Phryne no end, although she tried not to show it too much. Jack was obviously uncomfortable with the height, but he was just as obviously willing to face his fears in order to complete a thorough investigation, and that was the type of courage she admired.


	5. Chapter 5

_Many thanks to all the people who have taken the time to review this fic. So that I don't get accused later of disappointing anyone, I'm letting you all know now that this is a 'Friendship' fic only. There's no romance to look forward to this time, I'm afraid. And not even the hope that I might change my mind - apart from final editing and polishing the whole thing is already written *ducks for cover*._

* * *

She arrived at the station the next day early enough to make Jack glance at the clock in surprise.

"Well, since my supper guest stood me up I decided on an early night," she told him, in response to his unanswered question. "And it appears that there's some truth in the old saying: 'early to bed and early rise'. And since I'm already fabulously wealthy and in perfect health I thought I'd come down here and give you the benefit of my wisdom."

"Not to mention your innate modesty and humility," he responded, pushing a file across the desk towards her. "The combination of names Mr. Gould mentioned last night rang some bells. James 'Jimmy' Smyth, John 'Jake' Bradford, Angelo Martinez, and Petros Greigorio. All linked to the illegal gambling case that you so casually dismissed as unimportant."

"And are any of them tall and swarthy?" She flipped through the file, looking for photographs.

"Sadly not, but we do know they're involved with a clandestine gambling den somewhere on the docks. The location keeps shifting, which is why we haven't been able to raid it yet."

"And until you can find it and raid it, you don't have enough evidence to arrest them."

He nodded. "Precisely."

She closed the file and pushed it back to him. "So, what's our plan?"

"Well, it's too early to talk to the working girls, but we can follow up with the theatre staff we missed last night. I'll send Collins to interview Smyth and the others at their various places of work, although I doubt he'll get much out of them, and I also want to pay a visit to Parsons' residence, and his family. Gambling is the obvious angle on this one, but I don't want to overlook anything simply because I neglected to cover the basics."

...

Several hours of boring legwork later it was obvious that Samuel Parsons had no enemies except for whoever he had cheated at cards; that his associates knew something and were saying nothing; and that the gambling angle was therefore most likely the correct one. It was also obvious, to Phryne at least, that it was time for lunch, and she all but dragged Jack into a modest eatery a few blocks from the station.

"Two of whatever the special is," she told the server, "and water while we're waiting." She pinned Jack, who was jiggling his leg impatiently, with an exasperated look. "Honestly, it's no wonder I'm always able to bribe you with food. Do you ever stop to eat?"

"I have sandwiches back at the station," he replied, and she waved her hand dismissively.

"That hardly constitutes a meal. And you may need your strength later; unless I've missed something, our next stop is the working girls around the Majestic."

The server returned with their plates – a fairly standard meat-and-veg combination – and Jack nodded as he raised his knife and fork. "It is indeed. Is there any point in suggesting that it might not be the most appropriate aspect of the investigation for you to involve yourself in?"

"None whatsoever."

...

They located Flora fairly quickly, by the simple expedient of asking for her by name. She raked the two of them with an appraising glance as they approached. "I don't do couples."

"I'm not buying." Jack held up his badge. "And I'm not interested in vice, either," he added, before she could disappear. "Just information."

Flora gave him a hard look.

"For that, we are willing to pay," Phryne interjected.

She shrugged, and Jack pulled out a photograph of Samuel Parsons. "Do you know this man?"

"Sure. We call him Lucky, on account of how he always wins at cards."

"Well his luck's just run out; someone shot him dead last night," Phryne told her. "I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."

The woman shrugged. "Can't believe everything you hear. I'm sorry he's dead. He was the decent sort."

"We're trying to find his killers," Jack told her, although she'd probably already deduced that much. "We believe it may be linked to his gambling."

"Probably. You don't win as much as he did, as often as he did, without pissing people off. Pardon my French," she added, with a contemptuous glance at Phryne.

She shrugged. "I've heard worse. Any idea who might have done it?"

Flora shrugged in reply. "You play with fire, you're gonna get burned. Could've been almost anyone."

"Tall and swarthy?" Phryne prompted.

"All men look the same in the dark."

"What about the location of these card games?" Jack asked

Flora's expression turned furtive. "Hey now, I tell you that, it'll only make trouble for me."

Jack sighed and reached for his billfold. He counted out several notes and raised an eyebrow at the harlot. She considered for a moment, glanced around to ensure that no-one was paying them too much attention, then shrugged, snagged the money from his fingers and stuffed it down her cleavage.

"He took me along a few times; for luck, he said. Most recent place was a warehouse on Wharf Five. Building E12: you'll know it cos there'll be a crate of apples out the front. And if anyone asks, I only told you cos you threatened to run me in."

"Understood." Jack tipped his hat at her, a courtesy ingrained from his youth, and the pair turned and left her to wait for someone who wanted her more usual stock in trade.

...

"So, what's our next move?" Phryne asked, once they arrived back at the station.

Jack seated himself behind his desk and reached for paper and pen. "Now I write up a report on what we've learned today before I locate some disreputable clothing and head for building E12 on Wharf Five."

"That's why you sent Collins to interview Parsons' associates instead of doing it yourself: so they wouldn't recognise you if you had the opportunity to infiltrate one of their games." He nodded, and she leaned back in her chair. "And what about me?"

"You may as well head home; there really isn't anything else you can do here today."

"And what about tonight?"

"Women generally aren't welcome at these... establishments."

She frowned for a moment before her expression turned calculating. "We know from Flora that there's at least one kind of woman who's always welcome."

"Absolutely not." He leaned across the desk, palms flat on its surface, and pinned her with an intense gaze.

She returned his glare with an imperious stare of her own. "Why not?"

"Leaving aside the fact that I'm going there in search of a cold-blooded killer, I am not parading you on my arm dressed as a cheap floozy."

"Jack, please. I'd be at least a moderately-priced floozy."

"The answer is still no. It's too dangerous, Miss Fisher, in too many ways."

"And yet you're going there alone? Come on, Jack; two heads are better than one. And who else are you going to take? Hugh? You and I both know he'd give the game away before you even walked in the door."

He pressed his lips together and she fell silent, waiting. He was right about the danger, but she was right about the fact that he shouldn't go there alone – and that she was the obvious choice to accompany him. After a moment he huffed an irritated breath out of his nose and frowned at her.

"No-one else touches you: you tell them you're there with me, and me alone. And if I say we're leaving, we leave. No arguments."

"Fine. I'll meet you two blocks from the Majestic at 7pm. We may as well begin as we mean to go on."

And with that she was gone, leaving Jack to wonder exactly what the hell he'd just agreed to.


	6. Chapter 6

He spotted her almost at once leaning against a wall on Plum Street, two blocks from the theatre. He doubted anyone else would have recognised the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher in the dark-haired harlot standing just slightly to the side of the pool of light cast by a street-lamp, but he would know her anywhere.

"You lookin' to get lucky?" she called as he drew closer.

He drew a deep breath. Undercover work might be a game to her, but to him it was anything but. He had never forgotten the reviewer of his one foray into musical theatre, who had described him briefly as 'unconvincing'. Fail to convince tonight's audience, and he could get both of them killed.

"Depends." He placed one hand on the wall behind her head and leaned in, flicking an assessing gaze down her body. "How much you want, darling?"

"That depends on how much you want." Her gaze was equally assessing.

"You have a name?"

"You can call me 'Fern'." It was a good choice, she knew. She'd used it before, so he'd hopefully find it easy to remember, and if he _did_ slip it was close enough to her real name to pass muster.

"I'm looking for company for the night, plus a game of cards. Reckon you can help me out?"

"You got the money?"

He obliged. "Half now, half in the morning."

She laughed and, as Flora had done earlier, tucked the folded bills into her cleavage. He made himself keep looking, feeling a spike of very real, and under the circumstances very guilty, desire.

"So, what do you want to do first?"

"I would've thought that was obvious."

He hustled her into an alleyway, away from prying eyes.

"Good work, Jack," she murmured. The words of the reviewer, which he had obviously remembered very clearly, were foremost in her mind as well, and she knew it was important to reassure him that his acting abilities thus far were anything but 'unconvincing'.

"Exactly how far are we going with this?" he muttered in return, clearly uncomfortable. She shrugged.

"Give it five minutes; that should be enough for Round One. You might want to stand a bit closer to me, though."

He closed the gap between them as she leaned against the wall, feeling the warmth of her body trace a line against his. The look she gave him suggested that she knew just how uncomfortable he was and, for once, wasn't about to use it against him.

"Do you have your dagger?" he whispered, more to break the silence than anything.

"Of course. Do you have a gun?"

He shook his head. "Too risky if we're searched. Someone'd be sure to recognise a police weapon."

A few moments later, he wrapped his arm about her shoulders and walked her out of the alleyway. "So, which way to this card game?"

...

Just as Flora had said, there was a crate of apples outside E12. Any doubts that they might have had about the veracity of her information were removed when the two men sharing a casual cigarette by the door approached them in a very un-casual manner.

"You lost?" one of them asked, as he and his friend briefly eyed and dismissed Jack before giving Phryne a much more thorough, and appreciative, once-over.

"Depends. I was looking for some... entertainment. I was told there might be some going down here." Jack briefly showed a few notes and looked at the men.

"Looks like you've already got your entertainment sorted," the other man remarked, reaching out to touch Phryne's hair.

Jack manoeuvred her away slightly. "Yeah, and I'm the one who paid for her, so I'm the one she entertains."

"Ooh, got yourself a real gentleman here, ain't ya luv?"

"Yeah, it's true love. Is there a game going on here or not?" Her Collingwood accent had been the despair of her elocution teachers, and she had often played it up simply to see the pained expressions on their faces, but it was coming in handy tonight.

"You wanna play, you gotta pay," they were told.

"Of course." Jack handed over the money, and one of the men waved them inside.

There were three gaming tables, plus a wireless tuned to pick up sports results beside a board showing the odds, and even a makeshift bar. The entire operation was clearly mobile, but also clearly very well organised. Phryne took all of this in with a single sweep of her eyes, but waited for Jack to pull her over to the table where Smyth, Bradford, and Martinez were dealing out hands of poker.

"This a private game?" Jack asked, and was waved to a seat. He pulled Phryne down onto his knee as several of the other men eyed her with interest. She eyed them back in like manner, until Jack slapped her thigh lightly but meaningfully, and she turned her attention back to him. "You're here with me, remember?" he growled at her.

Phryne knew that only she had noticed the tick in his jaw that told her, more clearly than words ever could, just how much it was costing him to treat her this way. But she answered as Fern, because if she didn't then he'd have paid that price for nothing. "Whatever you say, baby. I'm all yours."

"Then go get me a beer."

He slapped her arse as she walked away, not quite hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough that it crossed her mind quite suddenly that she really, really didn't like this any more than Jack did. For the first time ever, it occurred to that perhaps her insistence on going undercover hadn't been quite as good an idea as it had seemed at the time.

But she fetched the beer and brought it back, to find that Jack had already struck gold with their table-mates.

"Killed?" He turned to 'Fern', rising with anger in his eyes (and, behind it, hidden where only she would notice, something very close to heartbreak). "You stupid bitch; they killed a man from here last night."

"Well how was I supposed to know?" she whined. Fern would be afraid and, frankly, Phryne was having to remind herself that she didn't actually need to be. "You said you wanted a game; I found you a game. You said you wanted a beer; I got you a beer. Now are you gonna play, or not?"

"You know, you've got entirely too much lip on you," he told her, raising his hand meaningfully, and it was Phryne, not Fern, who flinched.

"Hey, calm down mate," one of the men at the table – Jake? – interjected. "Stupid bastard was cheating; that's the only reason Frankie shot him. You play it straight with us and there ain't gonna be any trouble."

Jack considered for a minute, then snatched the beer from her hand and dropped back onto his seat, gesturing peremptorily for her to resume her position on his lap. She obeyed hesitantly, as Fern would, reminding herself firmly that this was all an act. He snaked an arm possessively around her, and only she was aware of the gentle – the very, very gentle – stroking of his thumb in reassuring caress against her side.

The men played a couple of hands – Jack, she noticed, was a good player and quite capable of deliberately throwing a hand to ensure that he lost more than he won and therefore remained welcome at the table – before Phryne looked over at Jimmy. "Hey. You got a powder room here?"

One of the men sniggered, and she felt Jack jump slightly beneath her. He knew perfectly well that, for her, 'powder room' was a euphemism not for the call of nature, but rather for an opportunity to snoop.

"Head's down that way." Jimmy jerked a thumb towards one of two doorways leading off their impromptu casino.

"You get your tail back here quickly, you hear me?" Jack had her by the wrist as she stood, and the warning in his eyes was directed, for very different reasons, at both Fern and Phryne. There was no need for her to go snooping – they could see all they needed to of the gambling operation from here, and Jack was subtly and effectively pumping their companions for information on Parsons' murder – but she was getting bored, and that made her reckless.

"Yeah, yeah." She jerked her hand out of his grip and sashayed across the room, aware of his eyes on her until she reached the doorway.


	7. Chapter 7

There was no office, which was a shame as there was nothing like a quick snoop through the books for revealing the extent of an operation, just crates of beer and one of the foulest-smelling heads she'd seen in a long time, but she got lucky, in a way, as she made her way back to Jack.

"Hey, you're the whore what brought that new bloke here," a slurred voice remarked as a large hand closed on her wrist and spun her around against the wall.

She glanced out into the main room, but Jack didn't have a line of sight to her, which was both good and bad. Good, because it meant she could handle this her way without worrying about him charging in to play Sir Galahad. Bad, because if things got out of hand and she needed him to play Sir Galahad, he wouldn't know about it.

"Yeah, so what?" She made herself lean back casually against the wall, putting years of hard-earned street-smarts into her eyes.

"You picked a dangerous crowd," the drunk man replied, letting go of her wrist and leaning in as Jack had earlier on Plum Street. "That lot run with Frankie Simpson, and he ain't the friendly sort."

"That the Frankie what shot a cheater last night?" she asked. "Cos the way I heard it, he had it coming."

"That's him. And believe me, he's done as bad before over less. Reckon your mark better watch out if he takes a fancy to you. Frankie gets what he wants, and he usually comes in about now."

Her blood ran cold. This man was implying – no, all but stating – that Simpson might very well shoot the unarmed Jack in cold blood just to get to her, and then, in all probability, rape her at gunpoint. Hiding her alarm, she remarked as casually as she could "reckon it's time we were going then."

"Ain't ya gonna thank me for the warning?" the drunk man asked, and she smiled, choking back her revulsion, and pressed herself against him.

"Bloke I'm with catches me dealing on the side, Frankie ain't gonna be my only problem. But why don't you come see me on Plum Street tomorrow night? Name's Fern."

He seemed satisfied with that, and she made her way back to Jack.

"Where've you been?" he demanded, anger (and, behind it, worry) in his eyes.

"Just doing what a lady needs to do," she replied, sliding back onto his lap and pressing herself against him. Manoeuvring her lips close to his ear, she whispered urgently, "Jack, we need to get out of here."

She felt him nod minutely, then he threw his cards face-down on the table. "Ah, the hell with it. Reckon I've lost enough for one night. Now," he pushed Phryne back enough to give her an intensely lascivious (and, to her eyes, agonised) look, "I've got other things to be spending my money on."

The men at the table exchanged glances at this abrupt move, but didn't object as he stood, wrapped a possessive arm about Phryne, and headed for the door.

A large figure loomed abruptly in front of them, headed in the other direction. Phryne dropped her gaze as the man – well over six feet tall, and swarthy – raked her with a look that mentally stripped her naked and did despicable things to her. More than anything else, men like this were the reason she carried a dagger in her garter belt, and she knew without a doubt that they'd found the man who shot 'Lucky' Parsons.

Beside her, Jack tensed, and forced himself to keep walking at a steady pace. This had to be Frankie Simpson, and the look he was giving Phryne made Jack very, very glad that they were already leaving. He held his breath as they passed, not daring to look around until they were out of the door and back onto the docks.

There were leers and cat-calls from the men on watch by the door, and they both laughed as best they could and responded in kind as they headed back the way they had come. When they were a good distance from the warehouse Jack's grip on her shoulders lessened, became caring, the type of solicitous touch she had learned to expect from him, and he leaned in and spoke to her in his own gentle voice for the first time that evening.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine. I just had a tip-off we should leave." She paused. "You realise we're being followed," she breathed, and he nodded.

"Round Two. I'm sorry, Phryne," he whispered softly. Then his grip around her shoulders tightened into roughness again, and the hardness went back into his tone as he said more loudly, "this'll do," and pushed her into a doorway.

He leaned against her, tense, ears straining to hear the approaching footsteps, just as hers were.

"They'll never buy this, Jack," she warned him anxiously, and he nodded, his eyes filled with misery and determination.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. Then he grasped her thighs, pushing up her skirt before bringing his hands to rest on her buttocks and lifting her to straddle his hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pushed her back against the rough wood of the doorway. His clothing was still firmly buttoned, her knickers still in place, but it was nonetheless an unthinkably intimate position, and she could feel the tension singing in every line of his body. But still...

"Move, Jack, you have to move," she hissed urgently, as the stealthy footsteps drew closer. She felt him nod against her shoulder and give a shuddering breath as he obeyed, doing what he had to do to keep them both safe. And if those slaps and the threatened blow in the gambling den had cost him dearly, she hated to think what price he was paying now, because the worst part was that she could feel his body responding, the growing hardness between them over which he had no control, and which he must surely loathe even as a part of him enjoyed it.

The footsteps paused directly behind him, but, God help him, he kept moving, playing his role as though their lives depended on it. And in a stray beam of light, she saw that they did, because there was something blunt and metallic and very, very like a gun in the hand of the man now standing in the doorway, watching their every move.

He didn't dare turn around. His was the role of the lusty punter enjoying his 'entertainment' for the night, and he hated the fact that a part of him was indeed enjoying it, the warmth of her body, the scent of her skin, the feeling of her pressed against him in ways he had only ever dreamed of before. His only comfort, as he drowned in self-loathing, was the thought that, were a knife or a bullet to make its way towards them, their position meant that Phryne would be protected, shielded by his own body.

His was the part of the lusty punter, but she was playing the jaded whore and, as the man with the gun (Martinez? It looked like Martinez) leered at them, she raised her head and in her best Collingwood voice positively snarled at him; "What do you want?"

There was a filthy snigger, and Martinez touched his hat to her sarcastically before turning unhurriedly and heading back the way he had come.

As the footsteps receded into silence she felt the violence drain out of Jack, like filthy water running out of a basin, and he stepped back and lowered her carefully to her feet, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground in shame.

"Phryne, I-"

"Don't you dare say you're sorry," she covered his lips with her fingertips, her voice as choked with emotion as his was. "This was my idea, not yours: you were against it from the start. So don't you dare apologise to me, Jack Robinson, for something that you had no control over."

She wasn't talking about the undercover operation, he knew, or about her involvement in it, but about his damned traitorous body and the way it had responded to hers. He raised his eyes, letting her see the pain and shame in his gaze, seeing the understanding and compassion in hers.

"Take me home, Jack," she told him softly. "We can sort everything else out later."


	8. Chapter 8

They walked in silence until they found a cab, his arm still around her shoulders. She glanced up at his face in the darkness, seeing it set in tight lines of misery, and looked away. This was all her fault, she knew. If she hadn't insisted on being there, he would simply have played the cheerful but luckless gambler, got the information he needed, and left. She had complicated things, and he had paid the price. And, for the first time, she acknowledged to herself that, just perhaps, she complicated things for him far too often.

She was about to speak when they finally found a cab. Jack opened the door for her and gave the driver her address, and for one terrible moment she thought he was simply going to send her home, alone, and head back to the station.

But apparently Jack had learned the lessons of their past, because he walked around to the other side and took his seat beside her.

Once back at her residence, he paid the driver and they walked together to her front door, not touching now. She didn't even pause when they entered the silent hallway, just led the way into her parlour and fetched glasses and the decanter, carrying them both over to where he was standing, leaning against the mantelpiece.

She poured them each a drink, which they both downed with silent relief.

Jack was the first to speak. "So." He poured himself, and her, a second shot. "What prompted our sudden departure?"

"A drunk cornered me in the hallway." She saw the flash of alarm in his eyes and shook her head. "Not like that. In fact, he was almost a gentleman, in a drunken, illegal gambler sort of way. But he made it clear that our 'Frankie'," she would bet every note she had stuffed down her cleavage that that wasn't his real name, "wasn't too far away, and that if he took a liking to me there might be trouble."

Based on the way Simpson had looked at her as they passed in the passageway he had no difficulty guessing what she meant, but he asked the question anyway. "'Trouble' meaning?"

"You shot, and me..." she made a face, and heard his sharp hiss of breath as she confirmed what he had already suspected. "So, I decided discretion was the better part of valour, and here we are."

Rape. And him unable to do a damn thing to about it, except get shot and hope that 'Simpson' tripped over his body, leaving her at the mercy not only of their killer but of every other man in the place. He swallowed, thanking God that just for once she had shown a degree of caution. Even if she had, in all likelihood, been more concerned with his safety than her own.

"The man's insane," he confirmed, "and Parsons was a fool to cross him. Based on what we heard tonight, killing me to get to you would have been well within his character." Smyth and co. had been vague on details as regarded 'Frankie Simpson', but they had either said or implied that he was a sailor whose travels were marked by a trail of mayhem and violence, often sparked by any little suspicion or slight, real or imagined. He was a brawler, a gambler, a killer – a rapist, Jack added mentally – and all-round menace to society who managed to stay one step ahead of the law only by shipping out under a new alias whenever he felt he'd done enough damage in his current port of call.

And Jack had almost led Phryne Fisher straight to him.

"Jack, I'm so sorry." Phryne looked up at him briefly, then down again. He sighed, but said nothing. "It was Martinez who followed us, although it must have been Simpson who put him up to it. He had a gun; I saw it, when he stopped in the doorway. If he'd suspected..." she trailed off. "How do we mend this?" she asked, when the silence had dragged on for what seemed like forever, ashamed of the quaver in her voice.

Jack looked down at Phryne, standing with head her bowed and no trace of her usual carefree, flirtatious air, still dressed as a harlot and managing somehow to look innocent, and lost, and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Were he another kind of man, he would have laughed and made her laugh with him, or simply swept her up into his arms and made love to her, and all would have been forgotten. But he was not that kind of man and their relationship, however one might classify it – part friendship, part partnership, part courtship, and part, he thought wryly, ongoing battle of wills – was not something that could be fixed so easily.

But it was also, he reminded himself, remarkably resilient, able to withstand the terrors and tensions of their pasts and present, and her repeated attempts to push, or better yet, batter down, any boundary he cared to erect, able even to withstand his own deliberate attempts to destroy it. He had no doubt that it would withstand this as well.

"Give it time," he told her softly. "It'll mend itself, with time."

She looked up at him, feeling hope run through her. He hadn't said it wasn't broken, or that things would be alright all at once, but neither had he walked away. He was still standing there, even though she could tell that part of him would rather not be, and the fact that he was trying to reassure her that everything would be alright was more reassuring to her than anything he might actually have said on the subject. She smiled, and he smiled tentatively back.

"Thank you," she said, and he nodded.

"I should head home," he replied, trying to make his voice both gentle and decisive. "We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

She nodded and saw him out, closing the door behind him before fishing his banknotes out of her cleavage. She would give the money back to him tomorrow; had she done so tonight, she suspected it would have been too much for him to take.


	9. Chapter 9

_Many thanks to all the people who have taken the time to review this fic. __To Sousaphone and others who commented positively on the believability of Phryne's reaction to Jack's (pretended) aggression: Dubois probably isn't the only issue. In the show it's hinted (and I believe in the books outright stated) that her father was abusive as well. Phryne would be all too accustomed to violence from men she was close to. She trusts Jack, and to have him suddenly turn threatening, even as an act, would no doubt be extremely unsettling for her._

_Frankie Simpson is named for (and inspired by) Inspector Frank Butterman of the movie Hot Fuzz, and the sadistic Midshipman Simpson in the early episodes of Hornblower._

_Finally: FoxFireside, there's a little something in this chapter just for you._

* * *

He heard her front door close softly behind him as he reached the gate, and took a steadying breath. Was he upset? Yes. Would he recover? Yes. He turned his feelings over in his mind. What upset him the most was the thought that Phryne was upset... and yet, she was only upset because he was upset. So, in order to soothe her feelings he would have to examine, and overcome, his own. Damn.

What had happened? Well, he had treated Phryne appallingly but, he reminded himself, it had all been an act. He could, of course, have left her behind, but she had heard Flora give the address as clearly as he had, and he knew perfectly well that if he had refused to take her with him she would simply have turned up anyway. And that, he knew from experience, would quite possibly have caused far more trouble than simply enlisting her help from the outset. At the same time, he was under no illusions that turning up with a floozy on his arm had bought him a degree of credibility that he could not have obtained in any other way. Not to mention that it was the warning she had received about just how dangerous 'Simpson' was that had given him the opportunity to leave just as the man arrived... which might have been just as well. If even the brief moment when they had passed in the passageway had been enough to rouse the man's suspicions to the point of sending a gunman after them, Jack doubted he could have played cards against him without giving himself away.

And, of course, he was always at his best when he had Phryne Fisher by his side. All in all, he conceded, it really had been better that she was there.

Which brought him to their 'embrace' in the doorway. She had been absolutely correct that their act had been necessary – had quite possibly saved both their lives. And, he thought, between the two of them they had made it thoroughly convincing. A small smile touched his lips as he remembered her fierce snarl at their pursuer. If only his body hadn't betrayed him.

And that, he knew, was the crux of the matter. He wanted her. He wanted her with a need that had been growing progressively more desperate ever since they had met. He was not fool enough to think he could ever have her, at least, not on the only terms he would accept – she was never likely to banish her other lovers from her bed, and, once claimed, he would not consent to sharing her with anyone else – but he was fool enough to wish, to want, in his heart of hearts, exactly that. But it wasn't only her body he wanted. He wanted all of her: her generous heart, her lightning-quick mind, the beautiful soul beside which her physical beauty faded from consideration. And none of those had factored into his mind when he had had her pinned against that door.

His body had responded with simple animal need, and of that he was fiercely ashamed.

But, of course, that was what the male body did, as every boy discovered at some point on his journey to manhood. It took on a life of its own, and expressed its wishes obviously and undeniably at just the most awkward and embarrassing of moments. Phryne Fisher was no blushing virgin. There was no doubt that she would have known exactly what she was feeling – but her words in the doorway had made it clear that there was also no doubt that she did not in any way blame him for it. He was forgiven, and thus could take leave to forgive himself. Taking a deep breath, he tried to do exactly that, and was mildly surprised when it actually seemed to work.

Now the only issue was simple embarrassment over his lack of self-control, and that, he reminded himself sternly, was a result of pride, which was a much greater sin and inevitably came before a fall. If he let his pride over something which was, under the circumstances, so trivial come between him and Miss Fisher then he really would be a fool. No, he could live with the embarrassment if the alternative was living without her.

With all of that finally settled in his mind, he ceased his aimless wandering and turned his step purposefully towards home, and bed, and a good night's sleep.

...

Phryne waited until after lunch before heading for City South Police Station. It wasn't that she was avoiding Jack, she told herself, but he had given her the support of his presence the night before when she knew that he wanted desperately to be almost anywhere else; it was only fair to give him time without her now so that he could come to terms with what had happened. And, yes, she was avoiding Jack.

He was on the phone when she stepped into his office, hoping none of the anxiety she was feeling showed on her face. Once before he had cut her out of his life, and it had hurt more than she had imagined separation from any man possibly could. But to her surprise, when he saw her he gave a brief, welcoming smile and gestured casually for her to take a seat. Knees weak with relief, she complied, waiting quietly for him to finish his phone-call.

"... yes, thank you. That will be fine." He rung off, and looked levelly across the table at her. To her further surprise, she saw almost no trace in his gaze of the previous night's turmoil. There was a slight tension around his eyes, but the shame and crushing guilt were gone.

"Miss Fisher, I was just about to telephone you. The raid is set for 10pm tonight, and I was hoping to take your statement before then. I'd also like a description of your drunk friend from the warehouse."

She tilted her head to one side, suddenly concerned. "Why?"

"He kept us out of what could have been a very tight spot. Of course, if he's scooped up in the raid he'll be charged, but I'd like to see to it that he receives the most favourable treatment possible, in return for his assistance."

She smiled, satisfied. "Thank you." A smile and a nod were his response, and she opened her purse and removed his money. "You left this with me last night." She had considered teasing him over it in some way, but had decided that, under the circumstances, it would be better not to.

To her surprise, he gave her what could only be described as a knowing smile. "Are you sure? You did, after all, keep me company for at least half the night. If I recall the terms of our arrangement correctly, that means it's yours."

To his relief, and hers, she laughed a long, carefree laugh. "Jack! Just when I think I have you figured out."

He chuckled as well, and took the money.

"I do have something else for you though," he told her, reaching into his desk drawer, and she frowned at him enquiringly.

"Oh?"

"Mmm." He slid the single white slip of paper across the table to her. "A ticket to attend 'Antony and Cleopatra' with me at the Fitzroy Amateur Dramatics Society this Friday night." He leaned closer and continued in a confidential tone, "I can't absolutely guarantee an absence of suspicious deaths, but, who knows, perhaps this time we'll be lucky."


	10. Chapter 10

_Many thanks to Seldarius for pushing for a better resolution to the 'Crime' thread. I hope this meets with general approval._

* * *

Jack watched as Phryne read over the typed copy of her statement, marked and initialled a couple of minor amendments, then signed it with a flourish. She pushed the paper and his pen towards him and smiled.

"Now, about this raid."

"You will not be participating." It was a flat prohibition, and he had already made up his mind that this time there was no objection she could make that would cause him to budge. Not after last night. "This is a major police operation, Miss Fisher, with a high possibility of violence. You are not a police officer, and there are some aspects of police work in which you simply cannot be involved."

She opened her mouth to object, and he played what he hoped was his trump card. "And if you turn up unannounced, I will have you escorted back to the station in handcuffs. And it won't be me who does the escorting." He had debated whether or not to add that last threat, but had felt that it was the only way to underscore just how serious he was. There was no point in pretending that their close association meant that he would be anything other than a soft touch in carrying out such a threat himself, whilst the idea of ending up handcuffed in the custody of an unknown officer, one who would likely be far less sympathetic to her charms, would, he hoped, be enough to give even Phryne Fisher pause for thought.

It seemed to work, because she folded her arms and glared at him across the table. He allowed himself to soften slightly. "If you stay out of the way, I promise to phone you with details at the first opportunity."

She regarded him for a moment. It wasn't what she wanted, but for once she had to concede that he was right. A police operation on this scale really wasn't something she could involve herself in. And the phone-call was a thoughtful gesture. "Fine. But if my telephone hasn't rung by 2a.m. I'll come looking for you."

The expression on his face at her words reminded her that he wasn't planning a walk in the park, and for the first time in their discussion she felt a stab of concern for him. If the raid went badly, she might find him in the hospital – or the morgue.

He nodded. "At the first opportunity," he reiterated.

...

It was a relief not to have her there, he thought, as Collins killed the lights on their car later that night. After the way Simpson had looked at her the night before, he wanted to keep her as far away from the man as possible. Phryne Fisher seemed to attract the attention of madmen like a magnet, and he didn't want to have to worry about yet another deranged killer fixating himself upon her. And, he reminded himself, a police raid really was no place for a private citizen, not even a self-styled 'Lady Detective.'

One of the guards at the door recognised him from the previous night.

"Well, look who's back. Where's your girlfriend then, mate?"

He smiled holding up his badge in one hand and his gun in the other. "She couldn't make it." He nodded to the officers who had moved up soundlessly behind them, and in a moment the two men were shackled and being escorted to a prison van while two of Jack's men took their place.

"Excellent work. Now remember, if anyone else arrives, let them in. They'll be arrested once they come through the doors." He looked around as the shadowy figures of more officers took up their positions ready to enter the warehouse behind him. Others, he knew, would be covering the rear exit by the lavatories. More than twenty men would be involved in this operation: Jack was taking no chances. He nodded once. "Alright. Go."

They burst through the doors with guns already in hand "This is a raid! Nobody move!" He had entered with his gun and his gaze orientated towards the table where he had gamed with Smyth and the others the previous night, and was relieved to discover that he did indeed have Simpson in his sights. He hoped that the man wouldn't try anything – and yet another, altogether darker, part of him hoped that he would. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed as, with chaos erupting around them, Simpson just stood there and regarded him levelly, a slight smile on his lips. Never taking his eyes or his gun off the murderer, Jack called over his shoulder "Collins, Mackley, that's our man. I want him in cuffs and transported to the station immediately. Two guards at all times, and keep him in a separate cell from the others." He would not give Simpson the opportunity either to escape or to intimidate the witnesses whose testimony would, with any luck, be enough to hang him.

...

An hour later, Jack returned to the station. They had made almost thirty arrests, and he had left officers at the scene to gather evidence and scoop up anyone else foolish enough to show up.

"Do we have photographs of Simpson yet?" he asked Collins.

"Uh, yes sir. They should be ready soon."

"Good. I want copies ready to circulate as soon as possible."

"Yes sir. How widely will we be circulating them, sir?"

He considered what he already knew of Simpson. "Internationally, Collins. Internationally."

The young constable's eyes widened. "Yes, sir."

Other officers had already begun processing the suspects. "Sir?" one sergeant called out, approaching him.

"I hope it's good news, Weatherby?"

"Yes, sir. I just took a statement from a John Bradford. He's admitted to participating in an assault on your murder victim a couple of days before he was killed. He also confirmed that Frankie Simpson told them they should have killed him, and when they objected, immediately stormed off to the Majestic Theatre to-" Weatherby consulted his notes "-'take care of the dirty rat' himself."

Jack was impressed. Such a statement this early on would be very useful indeed. "Good work, Weatherby."

"There's more, sir. According to Bradford, he headed to the theatre himself, hoping to warn Parsons that Simpson was after him. He attempted to enter through a back door, and saw Parsons running towards him-" notes again "-'like the devil himself was after him.' When Parsons saw him, he turned and ran back the way he had come. Bradford never got a chance to deliver his warning."

Jack nodded. "That explains the second man at the theatre. Get that statement typed up and signed. I'll be in with Simpson."


	11. Chapter 11

Simpson sat before him, handcuffed, with a constable standing at his shoulder. A second constable stood against the wall, ready to take notes on the interview. Jack was taking no chances with this one.

"Let's start with your name."

The man smiled at him. "Francis Simpson."

"Your real name," Jack elaborated, only to be met with silence. "Mr. Simpson, let me be clear. As we speak, arrangements are being made to circulate your photograph, description, and details of your known offences to every police station in Australia, as well as the constabulary in a number of other port cities worldwide. I will learn your real name, and I will see you hanged under it."

'Simpson' leaned forward, still smiling. "I should have shot you and fucked your whore when I had the chance."

Jack forced himself to remain impassive, but something of his feelings must have shown in his expression, because Simpson's smile became, if it was possible, even filthier.

"Or, I'm sorry, was she your sweetheart? Not that it matters; they're all whores anyway, and I'm sure she would have enjoyed everything I did to her. At least, none of them ever complain afterwards."

His eyes never leaving Simpson's, Jack said levelly. "Constable, make a note that the suspect has just admitted to the sexual violation by rape of a female or females unknown."

"Yes, sir."

He raised his gaze to the other constable, the one guarding Simpson. "Escort Mr. Simpson back to his cell and leave him there. I can see there's nothing to be gained by continuing this interview."

"Yes sir." The constable laid a heavy hand on Simpson's shoulder. "Let's go."

Jack Robinson was not a violent man. He had committed his fill of violent acts during the war. But he was a man who had spent much of his life surrounded by violent men, and he had a certain understanding of their nature. So he rose when Simpson did and, as the murderer was escorted past him, turned and drove his fist, backed by the full weight of his body, into his solar plexus. Simpson folded up almost silently, and Jack bent so that their faces were level, being careful to stay just out of range of any attempted head-butt. He smiled beatifically at the man as he struggled for breath.

"You are going to spend the rest of your life in a gaol cell, Simpson. And then you are going to hang. And you are never going to know the touch of a woman's body ever again."

For a long moment he allowed the killer to look him straight in the eye, remembering as he did so that this man would have turned his vile attentions on Phryne given even half a chance. That thought was all he needed to make his gaze as cold and merciless as the grave, and he was gratified to see Simpson's eyes widen in understanding and something akin to fear. Then he straightened and gestured to the constable to lead the prisoner away.

...

Phryne Fisher was not waiting anxiously by the phone for a man to call her, she told herself firmly. No, she was waiting anxiously by the phone for an update on an important case. The fact that the man who would be delivering it was... 'was what?' she wondered, but stopped that train of thought in its tracks. Was Jack Robinson, she continued firmly, was immaterial.

The first ring startled her so much that she almost spilled her whisky, but she made herself walk into the hallway with a measured pace.

"Phryne Fisher speaking."

"Miss Fisher, Detective Inspector Robinson here."

Always so formal, she thought with amusement. "Jack. So you made it back in one piece then?"

"I did indeed."

"Did you find my drunken informant?"

"Perhaps fortunately for him, no." He had examined all the prisoners carefully, Phryne's detailed and idiosyncratic description ('nose like a ripe plum, and eyebrows like two caterpillars fighting for the first bite' was a line that had particularly stood out) foremost in his mind, but hadn't found their man.

She paused. "And Simpson?"

"In custody."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"Nothing useful." He was trying to keep his tone neutral, but he must have failed, because Phryne's own tone suddenly became concerned.

"Jack? Is everything alright?"

He sighed. Whilst he wasn't about to repeat Simpson's exact words to her, there was little point in pretending that he hadn't found the interview disturbing. "He and Murdoch Foyle are two cuts from the same cloth. Fortunately, Simpson lacks Foyle's intellect and finesse. With the witness statements from tonight we already have enough evidence to hang him. I doubt we'll ever establish the full extent of his crimes, but I'm confident we'll have a compelling case put together in no time."

He heard the shift in Phryne's tone at the comparison to Murdoch Foyle. Once upon a time, he had dismissed her fear of the man as mere feminine hysteria, a mistake that had almost cost them all dearly, and he knew that the comparison had made his point as nothing else could.

"Exactly how worried should I be?" she asked, in a voice that contained only the very slightest tremor.

"It took Foyle nearly twenty years to engineer his escape, and that was only with the assistance of accomplices on the outside. Based on what I've seen tonight, Simpson doesn't have that kind of support, and he certainly doesn't have that much time. You're quite safe." And if Simpson did escape, he would not underestimate the risk. No, he would be on Phryne's doorstep, armed, as fast as was humanly possible, and to Hell with the speed limit.

She smiled at his tone. Jack being reassuring was, she was discovering, a reassurance all in itself. "Well then, I'd better get to bed. We're going to be busy tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Miss Fisher."

"Goodnight, Jack."

...

Once again she waited until lunchtime before arriving at the station, but one look at Jack and she was sure she needn't have bothered. He looked as though he hadn't slept at all, and his usually immaculate appearance had degenerated into a definite air of dishevelment. He didn't even look up as she entered, too preoccupied with whatever it was he was reading on his paper-littered desk. It was only when she placed the picnic hamper firmly in front of him that he noticed her.

"Miss Fisher!"

"Since I suspect it would take a crowbar to pry you out for lunch, I brought lunch to you."

At her words his stomach growled audibly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten more than a couple of sandwiches since the previous night.

"That's very thoughtful of you."

"It's very thoughtful of Dot. She insisted on doing one up for the men as well. I've left it with Hugh. Now." She seated herself opposite him as, with hunger overcoming manners, he opened the hamper. Something – several somethings – within smelt delicious, and he was determined to find out what. "What's the latest on our case?"

"You already know most of it from last night. I've had a call from Port Augusta: a man matching Simpson's description was accused of raping a young woman there six months ago. Townsville want a copy of his photograph for confirmation, but suspect he fatally shot a police officer there last year. Sydney and Wollongong have been on the phone; I've even had a telegram from Darwin. It seems Simpson – whatever his real name might be – has indeed had a long and violent career."

Phryne shuddered. "Poor Lucky Parsons. He really didn't stand a chance."

"Mmm." They sat in silence for a moment, until Jack roused himself and dug into the hamper once again, coming up with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He shouldn't really, not on duty, but this had been an exceptional case and he felt justified in allowing himself a small – a very small – exception to the rules. He poured for each of them, and offered one glass to Phryne. "And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges."

"Twelfth Night, Inspector?"

"Just for a change."

...

Phryne frowned thoughtfully at the stage, and checked her playbill. Yes, Antony was definitely being played by Mr. Charles Grey, and Cleopatra was equally definitely Mrs. Cynthia Wade, the wife, presumably, of the director, Mr. Stephen Wade. She smiled wickedly and leaned closer to Jack, tapping the names in front of her meaningfully.

"You do realise our leads have taken method acting to its logical extreme?" she whispered and, at his confused glance, elaborated. "They're lovers, Jack."

He looked startled and glanced back at the stage before returning his attention to her. "Or they're simply very good actors."

She gave him a withering stare. "No-one's that good." She tilted her head to one side in consideration, and smiled. "Except maybe us."


End file.
